


Slipping

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Slavery, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2660165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Marcus’ recovery, Esca helps ease out tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. This is set early in the movie, near the end of Marcus’ treatment
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It still hurts long after the surgeon’s done with him, but of course, Marcus doesn’t show it. Agony isn’t becoming on a soldier. Even when he’s alone, he fights to control the pain, the dull throbbing, all the little aches all over his body that aren’t worthy of a doctor’s attention. He doesn’t bother to sit up when Esca brings him water; it’ll hurt more than it’ll help. 

Esca is good to him. Esca bends over the bed, places a warm hand beneath Marcus’ skull and helps to lift him. The feeling of Esca’s soft fingers in his hair helps counterbalance the pain, and by the time Esca’s lifted the cup to his lips, he’s stolen some of Esca’s strength. He drinks with a quiet countenance and allows his slave to lower him back to his pillow, smooth fingers slipping away. 

Marcus knows better than to ask for them to stay. It doesn’t stop him from thinking it. All Esca ever does is give him thoughts he has no use for. Sometimes he thinks this will be his undoing; this was a terrible mistake. Other times, thinking of _not_ having Esca makes his stomach constrict. He turns his head enough to watch Esca place the bowl on the little wooden nightstand, trading it for a damp cloth. He brings that to Marcus’ forehead, even though Marcus isn’t feverish, isn’t sweating. He closes his eyes all the same and lets Esca gently dab at his forehead, wetting his bangs and drawing them aside. 

“How are you doing?” Esca asks in a hushed voice, his usual standard. His eyes, though on Marcus’ face, won’t quite meet Marcus’ own, and his expression gives nothing away. Marcus licks his lips. He wants to lie and say that he’s fine. 

But he has no soldiers to impress here, and he winds up telling his dutiful slave, “I fear my back’s gone stiff from lying here so long.” He feels all of his muscles are going into atrophy, but his spine’s the worst. He looks away just in time to avoid Esca’s eyes. 

For a moment, Esca looks at him, hand slowly returning to mopping Marcus’ forehead. Marcus doesn’t shame himself with more complaints, especially not to a man with a life as Esca must have. When Esca finishes, he drops the cloth back on the table, and he flicks his fingers against Marcus’ bicep, gesturing his head in a nod. “Roll over.”

Marcus asks, “What?” But Esca just looks at him and pushes harder at his arm. If there were anyone else here, they would probably tell Marcus not to take orders from a slave, but the doors are closed and Marcus is curious and unable to tell Esca _no_.

So he obediently rolls over, dragging his dead-weight leg with him. He feels heavier than he use to, his muscles now more a burden than a tool. He’ll have to get over that, he knows. He turns his face in his pillow, the sheet rumpled beneath him, and Esca nods again in affirmation. Like: _good boy._

Marcus looks at the battered side of the nightstand just to avoiding looking at Esca and getting any more of an urge to shudder than he already has. He knew the second his uncle brought him Esca that it would bring trouble, but still, he can’t seem to hold onto regrets. Esca moves, a blur in his peripherals, and the mattress weighs down on his side, frame creaking.

A swift movement, and there’s a dip on the other side of his hip too, and he can feel a warmth along the bottom of his legs, rough fabric pressing into the sides of his knees. He looks over his shoulder—Esca’s straddling him. 

Esca starts to push at the back of Marcus’ tunic before he can say anything, hands ghosting around his sides to help bunch it up, pushing it higher and higher until it’s shoved under Marcus’ armpits and just barely covering his nipples. Esca drops his weight to sit on Marcus’ rear—Marcus grunts. Esca isn’t exactly heavy, no more so than Marcus can comfortably take, but he is warm and solid and the touch is far too close, too intimate for Marcus to imagine. As Esca bends over him, palms digging into his shoulder blades, Marcus chokes, “What are you doing?”

“You’ve never had a massage before?” Esca asks like it’s casual, like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t making Marcus’ cheeks heat and muscles tense. Marcus doesn’t want to say that he hasn’t, that he’s too focused for such luxuries, but he doesn’t have the breath for it. Esca drags his dry hands down Marcus’ back, pressing hard into his skin, and it feels bizarre and unbelievably good all at once. He doesn’t ask if Esca’s ever given a massage because he doesn’t really think it matters. 

Marcus knows he’ll shamefully enjoy it either way. He already does. Esca’s hands withdraw all the way down to the bottom of Marcus’ spine, heels depressing just above the waistline of Marcus’ braccae, sliding into the open v of Esca’s thighs. Marcus can feel it more than see it, but his neck is straining with the effort of correcting that. He can’t see as much of Esca as he’d like from this angle. 

Then one of Esca’s hands is in his hair again, and though Marcus’ hands brace themselves against the bed, he doesn’t actually move. Esca gently pushes Marcus’ head back down to the pillow, and Marcus obeys in the interest of preserving this massage. It takes a moment for his arms to relax again, but they do. Esca rewards him by way of more touches, now ten fingers pressing just below his neck. They draw together and flare out, kneading Marcus’ flesh in hard, symmetrical circles. The more Esca works, the more Marcus’ muscles seem to unwind, the heavier he feels. Even if Esca’s never done this before—has he had another master?—he’s good with his hands. Marcus’ concentration slips far below his usual attention, the exercise far more relaxing than any of the healer’s salves. It feels good to be touched with only good intentions, with soft caresses, with warmth. But mostly it feels good to have Esca’s presence hovering over him, taking all his hurt away. 

There’s a traitorous element too, which Marcus tries not to look at. It feels good, very good, but all of the energy that ebbs out of his body doesn’t dissipate into the air; it trickles down to pool in his crotch. He knows it’s cruel of him, to take another man’s kindness and turn it into something else, something Esca isn’t offering. But the way he can feel Esca’s thighs parted around him and the pleasure in Esca’s hands arouses him beyond his control, until he’s almost smothering himself in the pillow in an effort to hide his reaction. He knew he wanted Esca from the first time he laid eyes on that shuddering, brave wreck of a boy in the pit. And he knows he should never have let that get this far. 

He can’t bring himself to tell Esca to stop. He enjoys it with a mix of intoxicating pleasure and crushing guilt, until Esca pauses, palms lifting off Marcus’ middle back as he asks, “How does it feel?” His voice is so _quiet._ When Marcus pulls his face out of the pillow, it’s darker than he remembers.

They won’t be disturbed. Not now; there’s no reason to be. It’s getting late. Marcus opens his mouth, but whatever he meant to say turns into, “Your hands are dry.” His brain’s zeroed in on the skin-to-skin contact, but it’s still the wrong thing to say. 

Esca’s hands pull away, and Marcus shifts one elbow up so he can half-turn, peer over his shoulder to see what Esca’s doing. The sight makes him freeze in his tracks. 

Esca’s licking a long, languid line up the middle of his hand. His tongue slides over the other one too, and then he’s popping his fingers into his mouth, one by one, and suckling on them while Marcus _stares_. He would’ve thought a slave would fetch oil for this, but he can admit he prefers Esca’s idea. 

Esca lowers his spit-slicked hands down to Marcus’ back. Marcus lies down before Esca pushes him again, and he lies still, eyes frozen wide, while Esca kneads into his flesh, now pressing saliva into him. It feels better, smoother, the liquid cool while Esca’s skin is hot, but there’s something dirty in it—something that goes straight down to Marcus’ crotch. His shaft is filling out along the mattress. His mind beings to fill with images, ideas, thoughts of jerking up, of pushing Esca back against the mattress or toppling him down to the floor, grinding into all of his body instead of just his hands and thighs. Marcus thinks of having Esca sway his hips while he works, rock back and forth against Marcus’ ass, grind himself into Marcus’ skin. The more he plays out fantasies, the harder he gets, and Esca massages him straight through it, chipping away at all his pride and defenses. 

He’s left with something weak and wanting, and he’s so lost in the pleasure of it that he doesn’t even notice Esca bending over him until a wet stripe crosses the nape of his neck. He looks over, and Esca licks him again, still working his lower back. 

Then Esca _kisses_ him. For one blissful, burning moment, Esca’s blue eyes _stare at him_ , devour him and swallow him whole. Then they’re falling shut, and Esca’s soft mouth is opening around Marcus’ neck, pressing in a wet circle. Esca’s tongue laves over his skin, Esca’s teeth digging just enough to be felt. Marcus is trapped somewhere in a dream.

Esca’s hands pet outwards, stroke Marcus’ sides, slide around his stomach, flat between his body and the bed. Esca’s fingertips dip beneath Marcus’ braccae, while Marcus’ fist in the sheets, his hips straining to stay still. It takes every bit of control he has not to roll forward into Esca’s grip. Instead, he’s rock-still as Esca’s long fingers stroke down over his cock, pet the base and slip around it, gripping him tightly. The other hand keeps dropping, right to his balls. He can’t tell if he’s wet from Esca’s spit or his own sweat. Esca’s hand cups him and squeezes, tugs his sac lightly, and Marcus tosses his head back and _moans_ , raw and filthy and everything he’s been holding back. 

Esca nips at his neck, this time all teeth, and murmurs into his skin, “Do you like that, Marcus Flavius Aquila?” 

Marcus licks his lips and means to hiss _yes, more than he can say,_ but all he manages is a fervent nod. Esca’s hand squeezes him: another reward, and he gasps. He should ask if Esca likes it too—why is he doing this? Marcus wants to say that Esca doesn’t have to. But all he can manage is undignified mewling and one loose roll of his hips right into Esca’s palm. 

Esca’s weight drops onto him. For a second, it flattens him into the mattress, compresses out his air, but then he’s pushing up, flexing his body and taking it; he’s all hard muscle: he can support a scrawny slave. Esca’s thighs still clutch tight to Marcus’ hips like their own form of control. Marcus can feel Esca’s lean body through his tunic. The same body Marcus first saw exposed, glistening in the sun. Time seemed to still, then. It can’t come fast enough, now; Marcus wants Esca _desperately_.

But Romans don’t beg. He waits for Esca to adjust, to shift atop him, to grow comfortable and set into kissing him again, more, full, all large, sloppy, faster open-mouth things with tongue and teeth and scrapes and bruises, sucking that’ll leave marks in Marcus’ skin. Esca’s hand starts to pump, slick with sweat and spit and the juices already spilling out of Marcus’ tip. Esca’s body seems to roll into Marcus’ body with the same rhythm. Marcus doesn’t even have to do anything and wouldn’t interfere if he could. He clutches at the mattress for support, wishing he were clutching on to _Esca_ , and he starts to throw himself into Esca’s hand, all thought of pain forgotten. 

Esca is good to him. _So_ good to him, always has been. The pleasure Esca gives him is like nothing he’s ever experienced, nothing he’d even dare imagine. Esca plays with his body perfectly, strokes and squeezes and twists him over and over whilst hungrily devouring his neck, his back, his shoulders. He knows they’ll show in the morning. Right now, he can’t bring himself to care. He _wants_ to wear the claim of _Esca Mac Cunoval_. And maybe he can put his own on Esca in return. 

Esca has a skill in this, in everything he does. Marcus doesn’t have a hope of lasting long, even though he would stretch this into forever if he could. His bad leg would be a small price to pay for this company. Perhaps it would even be worth it, should he become an invalid, if Esca will lie with him. For now, Marcus rides Esca’s hand, forces Esca to ride his back, in great, swooping waves of delight that wrack his body like a storm. It builds and builds until there’s nothing left of Marcus’s being but the parts where Esca’s touching him, the parts of his skin that are blazing and churning and his stomach is clenching, his balls tightening in Esca’s grip, his head tossing back to rest along Esca’s shoulder, and Esca squeezes his cock and bites his ear—Marcus has no hope of escape. He peaks with a blinding intensity, spilling in Esca’s hand. He groans, “ _Esca,_ ” and has to force himself not to scream it. 

For a few rapturous moments, all of Marcus is this ecstasy. He shudders in Esca’s arms and spends everything he has. When there’s nothing left of him to give, he’s still a panting wreck. Esca pumps Marcus a few extra times, then removes his perfect hands. Marcus needs a few seconds to breathe, for his head to stop reeling. 

He starts to push up on his elbow before Esca can leave him. Esca lifts up onto his knees, still straddling Marcus but giving room to move, and Marcus awkwardly shuffles around onto his back, his leg groaning but the rest of him too satiated to care. He’s still hanging out of his braccae, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He just wants to look at Esca’s face. In the fading light of the sunset, Esca’s backlit like an angel. He’s beautiful, horribly so, but Marcus would’ve never dared to sully that, not first. 

But _Esca_ touched him first. And Esca looks down at him now with hungry, unwavering eyes. Esca looks so desperately _sure_. There’s a strength in him, a certainty, that even with all the military training and practice and proper upbringing, Marcus couldn’t hope to touch. He lifts his trembling hands to Esca’s hips, delighted when Esca doesn’t stop him. 

Then his instinct and desire overcome him, and he can’t resist. He pulls Esca down, flips them right over—Esca hits the mattress with a grunt, and Marcus is suddenly overtop of him, shuffling him over, pushing him under Marcus, even though Marcus is still weak and empty and can’t hold himself up. He collapses as soon as the movement’s over, crushing Esca down, and he wants to say sorry but doesn’t get the chance. 

Esca’s kissing him. _Hard_. His lips are only closed for a second, and as soon as they’re open, Esca’s tongue is in his mouth. Esca’s arms are reaching around his shoulders, wrapping along his neck, pulling him in tight. Marcus blankets Esca’s smaller body and covers him completely, and even after spilling everything he had, his body still jumps to lust. He’s burning to have Esca, and he kisses Esca back with everything he has, inexperienced as he is. He pushes his tongue against Esca’s and wrestles with it in between, shifts his lips to get more of the feeling of Esca’s soft, wet mouth, and his nose rubs against the side of Esca’s and he can feel his too-long stubble scrape along Esca’s chin while Esca’s own stubble scratches his cheek. The heat between them is stifling, and it takes a few seconds for Marcus to relearn to breathe through his nose, but the breathless mess before it is worth it, and he doesn’t pull away. 

He manages, in between kisses, to run his tired hands along Esca’s body, and he pushes the tips of his fingers along the front of Esca’s braccae. It’s difficult to do it sandwiched between their bodies, but he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up on his knees and give them room. He hesitates, both with his hand and mouth, just in case this has all been a dream, in case he’s wrong, in case this is all a horrible misunderstanding in which a slave is just trying to please his master. 

But Esca breaks away and whispers, “ _Marcus_ ,” with such conviction that Marcus’ fears waver and die. He knows that Esca has never been broken. He hopes Esca knows that he would never have forced this, no matter how many times he dreamed and wished. He wants to say more, how glad he is, how much he _adores_ Esca, truly does, but Esca is tugging at his hair and pulling him back into a kiss, and Marcus melts into Esca’s mouth, fitting right where he belongs. His hands push seamlessly down Esca’s braccae, and he wraps both hands around Esca’s cock. He wants to see it, but he couldn’t leave Esca’s mouth if he wanted to. He has to settle for feeling; it’s long and solid in his hands, and he pumps it studiously just like he would his own. He knows he isn’t as skilled as Esca, but Esca doesn’t seem to mind. 

Esca spends himself after a slew of strokes that Marcus has lost track of. One minute he’s pressing everything he has into Esca’s mouth, and the next, Esca is tensing under him, splattering his hands and biting into his bottom lip. Marcus hisses in a mixture of pleasure-pain that threatens to make him stiff again, even as Esca claws at him and finishes. Esca’s hands fist tightly enough in Marcus’ hair for Marcus to see stars, and his hands slacken, drifting, instead, around the general space of Esca’s small body. 

When Esca finishes bucking, his arms loosen, but he doesn’t entirely let them go. So Marcus doesn’t either. The two of them lay like that, breathing heavily against one another’s cheeks, entangled on the small bed with their flagging cocks side by side. 

For a long while, they’re quiet. The sounds of the night creep in on them from outside, the house itself otherwise silent. Marcus worries he’s crushing Esca, but he can’t will himself to move, and from the way Esca holds him, there must be some enjoyment in it. It occurs to Marcus, once, to thank Esca for the massage. But he can’t think of a way to phrase it without sounding flippant over the rest, and he has no idea how to express the extent of his feelings for that. 

Esca eventually tells him, right into his ear, “I’ll go by the morning. If you want me to go now, I will.”

Marcus’ body tenses for half a second at the thought of losing Esca’s warmth. The night air is cool against his exposed back, but Esca’s body below him keeps him enflamed. Though he understands the reason, he doesn’t want Esca to go even for the morning, so he doesn’t answer. 

He murmurs instead, “Tell me if I become too heavy.” Esca doesn’t answer either. 

So Marcus curls his body around Esca, except for his bad leg, which stays entangled with Esca’s, right down to the sandal on Esca’s foot and his own bare toes. Esca’s arms eventually slacken and slide down his back, resting lightly across his middle. They’re still there when Marcus drifts off, more content than he’s ever been before.


End file.
